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Found Your Rat

That the rat is DEAD and somewhere in the back of yesterday’s garbage truck should breathe reprieve for me.

And it does.

But only when I don’t think about the thing running amok in my garage these last two weeks.  Or–ECH– longer.  Or when I don’t ponder it chowing its way through an eight pack of Hansen’s juice boxes and leaving just the straws. 

Yep.  When I don’t think about it, all’s good.  What rat?

But I can’t be trusted.

That our cat is a hunter certainly elevatated his status for awhile here.  We nixed the ‘no cat in the garage’ rule and even chucked the guy in there at night.  Wherever that cat wanted to go, we made way.  Think ancient Egypt.

But the rat was having ill-effects on the rest of the crowd.  Our kids were paralyzed when it came to requesting anything from the garage.  “I’m afraid of the rat,” my daughter’d say.  “He’s hiding,” I’d counter.  “Just put your shoes on and go quickly.”  But nothin’ doin’.  My daughter’s legs had turned to cement.  And when I looked down, I was pretty sure mine had, too.

Which was when my husband came home with a rat trap–a mouse trap times ten–a thing sure enough to break a hand in eight or nine places.  And the two of us quivered just lookin’ at it.

“All we gotta put on it is peanut butter,” my husband said. 

“Peanut butter?”  I’d asked back.  “Since when do rats eat peanut butter?”   But then I wasn’t up on rats.  And the one we had apparently wasn’t partial.

My husband shoved the peanut buttered trap below his work area in the garage.  And then we waited.  As in we went to bed and said we’d check on the thing in the morning.

Only the trap wasn’t there.

Which seemed to mean that a rat attached to a trap was milling around our garage.  Milling, I say.  I couldn’t handle it.

Until my husband looked closer and reported that he’d found the trap.  But the rat…

the rat was still somewhere in our garage…only without his tail.

That I would make a routine saunter across our garage yesterday for some craft paper is hardly worth mentioning.  That I’d be thinking about a rotting rat and scanning the premises is, well, probably not worth noting either.  Until I saw it.  The rat.  The thing with only part of his tail laying inches from my right foot in permanent sleep.

The text to my husband didn’t say much.  Just a final word.

“Found your rat.”


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